


Mistletoe

by Hoisted



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2019-04-06 19:38:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14064078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hoisted/pseuds/Hoisted
Summary: Follows TV Canon but I'm keeping it light/ Season 8 future fic. Silly fluff to practice writing.When Winterfell hosts a feast to welcome home the King and Queen in the North, Sansa sees a perfect opportunity to make a certain Sandor Clegane feel welcome as well.





	1. Sartorial Choices

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, this is just silly fluff. Thank you for reading!

The wardrobe emptied out onto the mattress, trunks strewn open -- and Sansa, clad only in her shift, stood in the middle of it all, drinking in this strange new feeling. It started like kindling in her stomach and radiated out to her fingers, toes, ears – all turning pink and tingly – and not from the cold, for once. It was a pleasant frustration and she was utterly vexed. Vexed because none of these old dresses would do, but impassioned like she couldn’t remember. When was the last time she’d cared to put on something indisputably pretty?

She’d been wearing black for almost two moons. At first, the dour clothes were part of her plan to put off Lord Baelish and the other Northern Lords that vied for her hand. But after Lord Baelish’s death -- errr, execution rather -- she wore black sincerely. His presence had been such a weight in her life. Petyr was a monster, but she felt his absence all the same. And she did look older and respectable in the widow’s weeds found at the bottom of some forgotten trunk of her mother’s. “Like a lady crow,” Arya teased. 

Well “Lady Crow” was a look that would no longer serve. He was back from the dead and he’d been _looking_ at her.

Sandor Clegane had arrived to Winterfell in the middle of the night as part of Jon’s party. Apparently, their group had trekked almost non-stop since arriving at White Harbor, only pausing to give the small folk the opportunity to see the face of their new queen – Daenerys, the Dragon Queen and the last Targaryen. She had spied him moving through the gates like a shadow at the back of the retinue as all of Winterfell fell to its knees to welcome home their King and Queen in the North. Sansa was meant to keep her eyes down in humility before the monarchs, but found it impossible to keep from staring. And his eyes – fierce and grey -- they were staring back. She’d been flushed ever since.

What was more, finally, for the first time in her life, she had a name for what she was feeling - -what she supposed she’d felt towards him for a long time. She’d dreamed of the man in her _marriage bed_ for the love of the Gods. Sansa caught her own eye in the looking glass and flushed harder. "So this is what desire feels like…." She thought.

And that’s why she needed to look pretty for once.

 

All of a sudden, she heard a voice behind her. “And what are you doing now? Preening!?” It was Arya, always so sneaky.

Sansa felt short of breath -- the last thing she needed was another one of Arya’s japes. “As lady of the house, I need to look… look my best before our new Queen,” Sansa stammered, doing her best to control her blush. 

“Phffff!” Arya snorted. “I hope you’re not trying to please that fake husband of yours. I grant he should be pleased enough I didn’t execute him on sight.” 

“Oh, Arya, don’t say such things. He’s a friend of the Queen’s and that means a friend to Jon now. He can be kind….” 

“Yes, yes..” Arya’s eyes’ rolled back so hard Sansa would thought they’d get stuck. “Well -- whatever you pick, I’m certain you’ll look lovely.” 

Sansa beamed -- she loved it when Arya bothered to act like a proper sister. “Thank you.” 

“On that subject…” It was Arya’s turn to blush. “ I came here to ask a favor.” 

So *that’s* why Arya was making an attempt to be pleasant. “What is it?” 

“I’d like to...to...to..”

“Yes?”

“I’d like join you while you prepare. So your lady’s maid can braid my hair for me.” Arya looked like a bloody beat. 

Sansa’s eyebrows raised and her pink mouth gaped open. How unlike Arya to even take an interest in looking like a lady. “Of course you may, sister” She smiled and moved to hug Arya, but her little sister was too quick. “I’ll be back at dusk! Thank you!!” The door was open and shut before Sansa had a chance to stop gaping. 

Sighing, Sansa returned to the problem at hand. Piles of beautiful clothing - a mix of “Alayne’s” clothes along with what she had been able to salvage of her mother’s following her return to Winterfell - but nothing suitable. Alayne only had dresses for the cool autumn, and most of her mother’s winter finery was a tad too small. “But what’s this!” she gasped.

Dark green velvet, some yellow embroidery -- frayed in some parts, but she reckoned she had the time to mend it ….it might be a _little_ tight in the bust for her but she could always loosen the laces a bit…The fabric was maybe too thin for winter, but not so thin that Sana would look like a total idiot wearing it. ….And at least it looked long enough to cover her ankles. “I pray I won’t grow another inch,” she whispered…”But praise the gods he’s so tall!” She flew to her sewing kit, less vexed, but her heart fluttering fast as ever.


	2. Lovely

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Where is Sandor Clegane?_

“You look lovely, my lady,” Alys Karstark said as she gave Sansa’s hand a warm squeeze. 

A soft soft sprinkle of snow lay on the ground, but the sky was clear and bright and the northern stars were giving of just enough light to make Sansa’s hair shine. She knew she looked entrancing….she just needed to find someone other than Alys Karstark to notice. 

“Thank you, Lady Alys,” Sansa smiled. “And you look radiant yourself.”

Alys gave a pretty blush and put her hand against the burgeoning bump on her belly. “My lord husband and I are ecstatic. I am ever grateful to our King for arranging such a fortuitous match.” 

Sansa smiled in agreement, doing her best to keep her eyes and mind focused on the Lady Alys, although her thoughts kept wandering.

The feast was in full swing. Three small bonfires were placed throughout the large inner ward of Winterfell to warm the crowd and two troupes of musicians played on either side of the open space, allowing for several dances to happen at once. At first, the Wildlings and Thens had not mixed with the Northerners, but as bands played on (and the people drank on), the atmosphere grew increasingly lively. The groups dancing now were colorful mixes of all three peoples and the frenetic beat of the drums was encouraging the wildest sort of acrobatics; she’d seen a Wildling man attempt to teach Podrick Payne how to cartwheel! Although Sansa had never developed a taste for drink herself, in this moment, she was pleased the excess of ale and cider she’d ordered was contributing to the jolly atmosphere of the feast. The money Lord Baelish had left her in his will was coming in handy. 

“Pardons, ladies.” Alys’s Thenn husband approached and made a slight bow of his head towards Sansa. “Lady Sansa look well tonight.” Alys’s Lord Husband, the Magnar of Thenn, spoke the common tongue haltingly and with an unusual accent. 

“Thank you, Lord Sigorn,” Sansa replied back with a curtsey. “I hope you and your people are enjoying the evening?” 

“Food good. Music good. Drink good.” The Magnar said. “Wife dance?” he asked, taking Alys’s hand. 

“Yes, my husband. If you’ll excuse me, Lady Sansa?” 

“Of course!” Sansa said and she watched as the Thenn led Alys out to dance. 

Sansa couldn’t help but note how happy Alys and her husband appeared, despite how odd their pairing. Lord Sigorn looked to be a brute from beyond the wall, at first glance, with his blue face paint and gruff speech. But he so clearly cherished sweet Alys Karstark! He’d been feeding her bits of meat and dried fruit off his plate in the hall during the meal! And now they were dancing arm in arm….Sansa was envious….she had yet to speak to the man she wanted to dance with, although she wasn’t entirely sure he liked dancing -- Where had he even gotten to? Didn’t he know how much effort she’d put into looking lovely tonight?

“Saaaaaansa!” Arya came bounding up, the lad she’d been dancing with at her side. The pretty braids the maids had so carefully done up were starting to fray and fall apart from all her wild reeling . They came bearing three cups of ale, and Arya graciously handed one over to Sansa. “You’ve already met Gendry, remember?! Jon knows him!” she exclaimed by way of introduction. 

The boy turned red and Sansa wasn’t sure if it was from the dancing or from nerves, but he seemed to be sweating. Sansa’s eyes narrowed a bit, but before she could respond, he remembered his manners and gave Sansa a modest bow. “Lady Sansa,” he greeted her. 

“Of course, it is a pleasure to see you, Gendry.” So _this_ is why Arya wanted to have a lady’s maid braid her hair tonight. Suspicions confirmed. “How goes the forge these past few days?” 

“Ummmm….well, my lady,” Gendry said looking at his shoes. The poor boy. 

“And how are you enjoying the feast?” 

“Umm….that’s well, too.” 

This was going to be painful, Sansa thought. “I’m so pleased to have a man of your skill at Winterfell. I hope you’re feeling at home?” 

The boy’s eyes caught Arya’s and both of them looked away as fast as if they’d touched a hot pan. The dears. Gendry didn’t respond, but continued looking at what must be a fascinating spot on his left shoe. Sansa decided to do the sisterly thing and ease the awkwardness. She took a sip of her ale and grimaced.

“Oh Gendry, would you be so kind as to fetch me a cup of the warm cider instead? This ale is too bitter for my liking. Maybe Tormund over there can enjoy this cup? Arya and I will wait here.”

“With pleasure, my lady.” He was on his way back to the hall in an instant. Jon had told Sansa Gendry was a fast runner, but really?

“So….” Sansa began, with a pointed look. 

Arya erupted. “Look, he’s a friend and a good person and I knew him from before and he’s a good fighter and he knows lots of stuff and Jon likes him and -” 

“He seems like a worthy friend.” Sansa finished. 

“You think so?” Arya seemed thrown off.

“Yes, I’m happy for you, Arya. Gendry is indisputably brave and strong. I can only assume he’s kind and respectful or else you wouldn’t have such a high opinion of him. It’s true he’s of lesser birth than you, but that’s for you to sort out with Jon, should we all live long enough. ” 

“Oh,” Arya was taken aback. The red in her face eased into a nice pink shade and she grinned. “I’m glad you think so!” 

“I am your sister, Arya. I love you and I want you to be happy. We’ll just have to work on his conversation skills, that’s all.” Sansa couldn’t resist. 

Luckily for Arya, she was spared further embarrassment by Gendry’s return. “Cider, my lady?” 

“Thank you, Gendry,” Sansa gratefully took the mug into her hands and felt the warmth trickle into her fingers. She hadn’t worn her gloves this evening and she appreciated the drink, even if she wasn’t keen on imbibing. 

“Aren’t you cold?” Arya asked brusquely. “Where’s your cloak? Why’d you wear that dress? It doesn’t seem warm enough. Shouldn’t you go change?” 

It was true, the dress was a little more….scant… than the dresses Sansa typically wore. The dark green velvet was just a liiiitle tight in the bust with a neckline that was just a bit more appropriate for early spring than for winter -- or for a tavern wench, but what good did it do if Sandor Clegane wasn’t around to see it? Arya had to be so oblivious, didn’t she? 

“I wore it because I like it.” Sansa snapped. “Why did you have my lady’s maid braid your hair?” 

That shut her up. Arya snatched Gendry’s hand and pointed to a group revelers across the way, “Oh look! They’re doing backflips! Let’s go try.” 

Gendry gave another bow and the pair was gone. 

At last, Sansa was alone. The whole evening, she’d been doing her duty and conversing with everyone who crossed her path. Bidding them welcome, ensuring the more pompous lords and ladies felt sufficiently honored, listening to their concerns (and in some cases, complaints), and graciously accepting their never ending compliments on just how lovely she was looking tonight. It was honestly exhausting.

….And a bit lonely, come to think of it. The party had been going on long enough that formalities had relaxed. Everywhere she looked, she saw people in pairs: her brother and his Queen, Arya and Gendry, Alice and her husband. Even Lady Meera Reed and Bran sat devoted to each other next to the fire, quietly sipping their ale and stroking Ghost’s soft fur as he dozed. Some ribald individual, Tormund probably, had tied a sprig of Mistletoe to the archway leading back into the Hall and couples were stopping to coo and kiss and they walked through. 

“All this romance, and I’m alone. Where is he?” Sansa thought to herself. Suddenly, she felt like a stupid little girl again. Had she so misread the situation? If he found her at all enticing, wouldn’t he be here right now? She had worked herself into a tizzy mending the frayed embroidering on the dress. She had forgone her midday meal just to be certain she would be able to tie the laces on the blasted thing. And here she was, alone sipping cider by herself. 

“Cheers,” she said to no one and she finished her drink with an unladylike gulp, tipping the bottom of the cup to get every last drop. 

Then from behind her, a familiar rasp. “Did you learn that from your Septa?”

Finally!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More silly fluff. I'm adding in some stuff from the book too - so this is just a hodgepodge of everything. Keeping it light / suggestions welcome! Thank you for reading!


	3. Honesty, Interrupted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa finally gets the chance she's been waiting for. Unfortunately for her, declarations of desire are easily interrupted.

He’d always had that way of sneaking up on her. To Sansa’s pleasure, tonight was no exception after all. She turned around, a thrill moving through her body, and drank him in, in all his muscular glory. 

“Hello, Clegane,” she said. Her eyes surveyed him up and down. She hadn’t been this close to him since the night of the Blackwater, so many years ago. She’d been a child then, with no mind to appreciate what she had before her - a man who was everything her father had hoped for her - brave, gentle, strong. Looking at him with a woman’s eyes, she could appreciate him in other ways as well. She found that being near his brawny body and scarred face no longer frightened her. In fact, she had to restrain herself from throwing propriety out the window and taking a step closer to him. 

“Are you alright, little bird?” he asked.

She almost swooned. With his eyes locked on hers, he lifted his hand and brought it to her shoulder, close enough to the exposed skin of her neckline she could feel the roughness on her bare skin. “Oh, yes,” her voice came out breathy and she sounded strange to her own ears. “Why do you ask?” Gods, his scent was heavenly! Like fresh earth and leather oil. 

“Because I just saw you chug down enough hard cider to down aurochs and now you’re staring slack faced at me as if your mind has gone soft.” 

“Oh.” 

He took his hand back from her shoulder, letting his fingers linger a bit longer than was necessary. 

“I’m - I’m quite alright, thank you.” 

He peered closer, craning his neck down and narrowing his eyes. “You’re flushed.” He looked concerned. 

“I must be overly warm….”

“It’s winter.”

“...from the bonfires.”

“In that dress?” So he had noticed! 

“It’s crowded,” she finished, somewhat lamely. 

“So it is,” he chuckled. From their quiet corner on the edge of the party, they could observe the revelry continue, the sweet sound of pipes and lutes filling the air. She saw his eyes scan the crowd only to fall back on her face in a moment’s time. In all this commotion, would anyone notice if they slipped away?

“Would you escort me for a walk in the Godswood, Sandor?” she breathed. “I would like to be away for a moment.” 

He took a breath so sharp she could hear him inhale and she thought she could see his eyes grow dark as he cupped his strong hand beneath her chin, keeping her gaze steady on his eyes. As if she would look away! “Little bird,” he murmured. 

And then just as suddenly as he had arrived, he was gone. Jerking his hand away as fast as if her face had been on fire and then he was melting into the throng. 

Sansa barely had time to register what had happened when she heard the sound of a throat clearing from somewhere about the height of the small of her back. 

She whirled around. “Lord Tyrion!” She did her best to sound ladylike, despite the feeling of her heart plummeting into her stomach. 

“Lady Sansa,” said Tyrion, taking her hand in his and giving it a dry kiss. “You’re looking lovely this evening.”

She had barely exchanged five words with her former husband since they had been reunited. Thankfully, they had never been alone.Their encounters always centered around discussions with Jon and the Dragon Queen. No one had yet to broach the subject of their marriage, yet Sansa knew her luck could not last forever. She’d overheard snippets of whispered conversation between the monarchs and their council as she passed by their chambers. The room went suspiciously quiet when she entered and Jon had looked at her with sad eyes. 

“Are you enjoying the festivities, my lord?” She inquired, using the stiff courtesy she reserved for strangers. Of all the times he could have approached her this evening, he had to pick now!

“Please, call me Tyrion.” 

“Of course, my Lord Tyrion.” she replied. 

With a roll of his eyes, his calm veneer disappeared. “I see some things never change, my lady.” There was a twinge of regret in his voice.

“My Lord, I -” 

“You don’t owe me explanations, Sansa.” 

“Yes, my Lord. I would merely like to --”

“Queen Daenerys had hoped that our union, sham though it was, could be mended,” Tyrion interrupted.” A marriage between a Stark and a Lannister could go a long way towards bridging the divisions in this Kingdom, uniting North and West.” 

“It’s a noble idea, my Lord, but -”

Tyrion carried on. “But of course, I advised Queen Daenerys to have caution in this matter, knowing that you were not likely to desire ---”

For the sake of the Gods, could the man let her speak?

“Tyiron, I was a child!” she burst out. 

Tyrion’s mouth finally shut.

“I was a prisoner,” she continued. “I was a child-bride, a hostage, married into the family responsible for the unlawful murders of my father, mother, and brother.” 

To his credit, Tyrion didn’t look away. She’d never been brave enough to say these words to him before. 

“You were a decent man, Lord Tyrion. You stayed your hand with me when I was subject to your will and when a lesser man might have done worse. I won’t thank you for it, nor will I offer you any further explanations for my actions. All I ask of you is that we put the past behind us and we move forward as honest friends.”

He was quiet for moment. “That is all I wish as well, Lady Sansa.” He took her hand, more warmly this time, and gave it a kiss with a smile. “Enjoy the night,” he said, before turning his back and making his way towards the hall. She saw him assiduously avoid the mistletoe hanging from the arch before he was out of her sight.

Sansa let go of a deep breath she’d been holding and tried to reign in the tears threatening to fall from her eyes. She longed for honesty in her life, had longed to speak to the truth for so many years. Tyrion was a good man and would make someone a fine husband, but Sansa’s relationship with him would be forever tainted by how it began: with coercion and threats. She had never had leave to speak openly to him. Her choice was to lie or be sentenced to death for treason. There was only one person in King’s Landing who was ever interested in hearing the truth from her, and he was nowhere to be found now, and not for the first time this evening. She swore to herself, the next time she had the chance, she'd stop her chirping and tell him how she felt. 

The weight of five years of repressed emotions overwhelmed her. She slipped through the gates, unnoticed by the revelers, and headed for the Godswood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm kind of imagining Tyrion here as somewhere between book!Tyrion and show!Tyrion. But I would love it if someday --- book or show---- Sansa gets a chance to tell him to stop his mansplaining.
> 
> Also, thank you so much for reading! Feedback and suggestions are welcome!


	4. Godswood

The Godswood was warmer than any Northern forest had the right to be, but it was still much colder than the inner ward of Winterfell. Not for the first time in her life, Sansa was grateful for the hot springs which flowed under the castle, coming to a head here in the grove near the center of the Godswood. She’d been sitting here, staring into the steamy waters, trying to wrap her brain around what had just transpired.

“I’ve been bold,” she realized. And it was true. With a few heated words, she felt as if she’d crossed the last and final threshold between childhood and her adult life. It felt liberating, to have spoken to Lord Tyrion so truthfully, but underneath the feeling of freedom, she felt emotional and raw, like a newborn chick. She had never even spoken her mind and heart so plainly to her brother or Lord Baelish, the only other men with whom she’d spent a significant amount of time, Though perhaps, she considered, Lord Baelish hadn’t deserved to know her heart. 

Lord Baelish was the epitome of dishonesty himself and the more Sansa reflected on her time with him, the more she realized how manipulative and disgusting his actions towards her had been. So different from Sandor Clegane, cynical though he was, who had spoken to her without guile and urged her to do the same. Not for the first time, she thought about the choice she’d made the night the Blackwater burned green, and wondered what decision she would make if she could do it all over again. 

“Is that why he fled tonight?” she wondered aloud, seeing the words come out in little puffs of frost which floated to join the steam coming off the hot spring pool. What did Clegane think of her now? Thoughtlessly, she had assumed that he must still hold a candle for her, if he had ever, but after his odd behavior earlier, she couldn’t be sure anymore. And he’d left to leave her alone with Lord Tyrion, of all people. “He should stop looking at me all the time if he hates me.” She dipped her ungloved fingers into the water to warm them, idly running her hand back and forth. 

“I don’t hate you, Little Bird.” 

Her emotions were already too raw for her to feel surprised. It seemed natural to her that he would arrive just now. Perhaps he’d been watching her and perhaps somewhere, in the back of her mind, she’d known. Hot tears began to pool in the corners of her eyes. “It’s time to be honest,” she thought to herself, willing herself to stand and face him. 

Sandor Clegane was standing just out of arm’s reach. “I don’t hate you, either.” she began, keeping her distance. 

Sandor was looking at her through narrowed eyes, his expression stony. Sansa much preferred the teasing, impertinent Sandor from just a half hour earlier. She almost lost her nerve to continue.

“I don’t hate you at all. What I wanted tonight was to --” she took a small step forward, shaking either from her nerves, the cold, or both. 

“Stop, Sansa.” he said in a low tone. He put his hand up defensively. “I don’t want you going on about it,” his voice rose. 

“But I want to tell you-”

“I don’t have to listen!” he rasped. His voice was as harsh as she’d ever heard it. 

“No, I was wrong! I was --”

“For Gods’ sake, girl, quit your shivering!” he shouted. He ripped his dung brown, roughspun cloak off and thrust it harshly around her shoulders. 

The feeling of it stopped her dead in tracks, transporting her to another time and place. Sansa felt warmed from head to toe - by the cloak and by the lingering feeling of his strong hands as he’d touched her. She was enveloped by his scent, masculine and comforting. She couldn’t help herself. She swallowed hard and nestled her cheek against the fur lined collar, breathing in a little deeper. She wasn’t even trying to stop her tears. 

“Thank y-”

“That’s enough,” he said, much softer this time. “ _I_ am the one who was wrong. I’m the one who should beg forgiveness.”

As forlorn as he looked at this, Sansa couldn’t help but smile a little, through her tears. “You were a bit of a beast, yes,” she admitted. This wasn’t how she had imagined this conversation going and receiving a genuine apology from a man was a new experience. 

“The things I said to you. What I did to you that night, with the knife. The wicked thoughts-”

“Wicked thoughts?” What was the Hound admitting here? And since when did he become such a...such a… prude? The Hound of old would have tried to scare with his crudeness, not disguise it with phrasing better suited to a Speta. The Hound she knew in King’s Landing relished in lewd looks and double entendre. Sansa appreciated this turn towards gentleness and wondered how he had spent the years since that night, an eternity ago. Had the Gods answered her prayer for him? 

“Yes, the wicked thoughts I have about you!” he finished, averting his eyes. His face was red and each heavy breath was audible. 

“You have wicked thoughts about me?” She grinned. Well, if Sandor Clegane was anything, he was honest. She felt inspired. “I have wicked thoughts about you, too.” she said, laughing, tears running freely down her face. She took a step forward and took his hands in hers. “I’ve wanted to see you again since almost the moment you left. I didn’t understand what I felt at first. I was so young and stupid. But now, I know what I feel-”

“Shhh.” He shook his head. “This isn’t right. You have a husband and I won’t let you dishonor yourself with a monster like me.” 

She rambled on over him, sick of his protestations. For the love of the Gods, could anyone just let her speak! “I know what makes a good man. You’re brave and gentle and strong and I dreamed it was you in my marriage bed and I know how you helped my sister, and I lov--- husband?!” That had caught her attention. 

“Yes,” he said with finality. “Your husband. Lord Tyrion.” Sandor was shaking and his eyes looked wet. “He’s not worthy of you, Little Bird. I wish you were free, but I cannot be the man to lead you astray. It would be torture to me.” 

So the Gods had answered her prayer! Here in front of her was a man so gentle, he wouldn't let her break a non-existent marriage vow for the sake of her honor. “But, Sandor -” she pressed his hand to her cheek.

“Don’t tease me, girl. I thought you better than that.”

“I’d never!” she exclaimed. “Sandor, I have no husband. I’m free. Tyrion has released me. He never touched me. He was never my husband.” 

“What?” Sandor seemed frozen in disbelief. 

She couldn’t balk now, she’d already been so honest there was no going back. “I’m a free woman and I want you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	5. Vows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is where it starts getting rated M, ya'll.

They hesitated. 

_“He isn’t doing anything,”_ Sansa thought. _“My Gods, all this and he’s just standing there. Why is he just standing there?”_

Sandor stood looking at her,  Sansa’s small hand still awkwardly cradling his against her cheek. Her blue eyes never wavered from his, begging for a response that just wasn’t coming. After all this time, would he refuse her?

 “Sandor, please say something.” she said, her voice sounding thin and more like a child’s than she’d had in years.

 He shook his head, “Shush,” and slowly bent to one knee, keeping his gaze steady on her face.

 The air left Sansa’s body the moment she recognized the gesture and the tears started to pour anew.   _He’s a gallant knight after all,_ she thought, as he pulled her onto his knee.

 Clumsily, he pulled her face towards his own. “I’m yours,” he said, kissing away a tear.

 “And I am yours.” she whispered back, barely able to breathe. She felt a firm hand on her waist, underneath the cloak and then the soft scratch of his scarred lips over her own. He smelled earthy and piney, and tasted just a little bit like wine. _This is heaven_ , Sansa thought. Instinctively, she fluttered her lashes, opened her lips and….

 Sandor pulled away. Chagrined, Sansa opened her eyes to find Sandor goggling at her. “Why did you stop?” she protested, leaning in and putting her lips softly to his cheek, his ear, his jawbone.

 “We shouldn’t,” he said. “Your brother..the feast... we should go…..” his voice hitched.

 “I don’t want to go back to the feast,” she whispered into his ear. She barely had the vocabulary to articulate what she wanted, but she knew if she had her way tonight, she’d learn it. 

That was all the encouragement he needed. Suddenly, he’d nudged her off his knee and had her underneath him, the warmth of the cloak acting as a barrier from the cold earth on her back. He kissed her, a real kiss this time, his tongue helping her part her lips. His body was hard above her, as muscular and solid as she’d imagined. Finally -  the opportunity to press herself against him! 

Sansa wrapped her hands behind his neck and relished the feeling of being close to him. That day a fortnight ago, when she saw he was alive, gave her a reason to restore the old romantic hopes of her girlhood. Sandor Clegane, for all his insistence that he was no _ser_ , embodied all the qualities she sought in a mate. Brave, gentle, strong, and honest. And the way he looked at her! As if she was the only person in the room, in the world. It was enough to awaken some ravenous part of her she hadn’t known existed.  Her thoughts of him consumed her. Her sleepless nights were filled with longing for this moment. 

Ardent kisses warmed her neck and she felt her pulse quicken under the pressure of his lips. She sighed and arched into him, feeling one strong hand caressing her side. Gods, how she wished his hands could be everywhere. His embrace was everything she’d hoped for, but she wanted more. 

“Is this alright, Little Bird?” he asked, his raspy voice  heated her to her toes. His hand was on her bodice now, rubbing his thumb over the peak of her breast. She nipped his lower lip in consent and brought his hand to her laces, encouraging him to go further. He made a sound that was half moan, half laugh, and pressed his hips into her, making her gasp and giggle. They were both delirious with joy. He struggled a bit with the laces, his large hands being better suited to a longsword than velvet and ribbons. Sansa was a bit surprised he need her help; she’d knotted them rather more loosely than normal in anticipation. 

“Sorry, out of practice,” he said, as he let her undo her own laces with one deft little hand. 

“Out of practice?” she frowned. _What could he mean by….? Oh of, course - other women._ The thought cooled Sansa’s lust enough to slow her hand, stopping just short of revealing everything. He’d spent so much of his life without her and there was an expanse of years between now and Kings Landing, years that were certainly filled with all sorts of experiences Sansa could hardly imagine. 

Sandor’s keen eyes evaluated the change in expression and he sensed what she was thinking. “No, Little Bird. It’s just you. It’s been just you for ages. It’s just you from this moment on,”  he said with a kiss to her cheek. 

“Well, which is it?” she asked, almost driven to distraction by his breath on her neck. “Has it been just me _for ages_ or is it just me _from this moment on_? Because the latter implies…” Truthfully, she was already won over, but she couldn’t resist the opportunity to know more. 

Sandor’s gaze moved from her face to the creamy patch of  skin exposed by the loosened laces. “I lived with the Silent Brothers,” he said, “on the Quiet Isle.” 

“Oh,” Sansa responded. That hardly answered her question. “Pardon?” 

“I was a novice, Sansa. For the Seven. After I left you, after your sister left me. The Elder Brother of the Isle found me and healed me. I stayed and lived amongst the brothers as a novice.” 

_Save him if you can,_ she remembered. _And gentle the rage inside him._

She lifted her hand to cup his cheek with her fingers. Her prayer for him was answered. 

She smiled up at him. “And you took vows?” she asked softly. 

He snorted. “Bugger that. You know what I think of vows.”  It was true, he did tend to go on about it. “What I mean is that I lived amongst men, Sansa. I haven’t been whoring. I’ve been -” 

“Behaving yourself?” she teased. 

“Dying in want of you,” he said darkly, looking straight into her eyes. If she hadn’t already been lying down, she might have fainted from rapture. 

She guided his hand towards  her chest, allowing him to slip his hand through the cloth and touch her, skin to skin. 

“Good,” she whispered. “I wouldn’t want to corrupt a man of the clo - OH!” Calloused fingers tweaked her nipple and sent a jolt of desire to her core. 

“Gods, I love to hear you moan like that, Little Bird.” She was glad of it, because his touch made her positively incoherent. 

The minutes passed and Sansa felt her body melt to liquid in his arms. She lost her sense of where her she ended and he began, her body begging to tear down that final barrier between them. His hips against hers, she was acutely aware of his manhood pressing into her. She’d never felt so empty before. Without thinking, her hands trailed down to touch him, hot and hard, even through his breeches. 

“Mmm, that’s good, but easy,” Sandor murmured, gently moving her hand back up to his chest. 

“It’s good?” she asked sweetly, her hands drifting downward once more. 

“I said, easy, woman,” a bit more gruff this time. “I’m trying to behave like a man, not a dog. Or at least more like a man and less like a dog.” His lips had been on the swell of her breast a mere second before. 

“But I wouldn’t mind if you did,” she said, trying to look more innocent than she felt. 

“We’re not married,” he stated bluntly. “You’re the King’s sister. I wouldn’t mar your honor.” 

“Well, you did give me your cloak.” 

Sandor looked puzzled for a moment then grunted. “Yes.” 

“And you did say that you were mine and I said that I was yours.” 

Sandor’s face went ruddy. “Yes, a sort of vow. Don’t make me repeat it.” 

“A ‘sort of’ vow? It was a vow, my lord, and not the first one you’ve made to me. And I’ll have you remember, you’ve given me your cloak, not once, not twice, but three times. And this time, you did it in my father’s Godswood.” 

He laughed and gave a smile. He had a wonderful smile, Sansa noted. _He’s so strong, no one’s even managed to knock a tooth out in battle,_ she thought, pleased to have been gifted with such a fierce husband. 

“We’re mostly married, Sandor.” 

“Aye, I suppose I’d say so. Do you want to be married to an old dog like me, you crazy wench?” 

“Aye, I suppose I’d say so,” she teased back, pulling him in for kiss. 

“So I’m your Lord Husband, am I?” he asked. 

“Mmhmm, yes, my lord” she nodded, squeezing a hand to his bicep, hardly believing he’d been so easy to convince. 

“Then I have two commands for you, woman. Never call me ‘my lord’ again and get out of that buggering dress.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Thank you for reading! The idea that Sansa would use legalisms and logic to wrangle Sandor into a marriage comes from the beautiful fic Rumor Has It by SassyEggs, who I'm sure we all read because she is the best. On the off chance you have not --- go read right now!!! I do not know SassyEggs, but I really love her work and I hope she's not offended that I'm referencing her fics. 
> 
> 2) Also, this is un-betaed, so let me know if any errors annoy you and I will fix! I really appreciate that you've read this far and I'm hoping that you're getting some warm-fuzzies out of this. 
> 
> 3) This has become a hodge-podge of TV and Book canon. I really like the aged up Starklings of the tv show, because the ick factor for the horrors they face is somewhat easier to tolerate if you can imagine them with a few more years. On the other hand, I think Rory is a bit too old to be a convincing Sandor so I'm imagining him book-age here. I mean -- Rory is about 10 years older than book!Sandor and I'd feel super sad for Sandor spending an extra decade as a self-loathing arse-hole. 
> 
> Another thing I'm beating around the bush on here is Sansa's tv marriage to he-who-must-not-be-named. So you can imagine whatever you'd like for Sansa, because I'm leaving it intentionally vague. However, I really like the sample Alayne chapter of Winds. Sansa's got some nice burns towards Harry in the chapter and I'm a big fan of witty!Sansa.


	6. Surprises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She only wore this dress so you could take it off, Sandor.

“Out of this dress?” she murmured. Sandor’s body pressed against her, his hands in her hair, his lips on her neck. She momentarily wondered if he was leaving marks on her perfect white skin before she decided she didn’t care. It was getting hard to think again. Her hand had drifted lower on Sandor’s body, and this time, he didn’t protest. “But it’s cold.” It was true. She was only saved from shivering by the warmth of his body and the steam rising from the hot spring.

“I have a better idea,” Sansa continued. “Let’s go for a dip.”  She tipped her head toward the hot spring pool, its steamy waters beckoning.

Sandor’s eyes looked disbelievingly from her eyes to the pool and back to her eyes again. “And you’ll be naked?” he rasped.

“Mmmhmm,” she nodded, nipping at his bottom lip. She wasn’t sure, but she could have sworn she felt his cock jump against her hand.

“Is that how you Northerners usually consummate a marriage? Seems a bit unconventional.” His voice sounded doubtful, but his lips were twitching as if he was trying to suppress a smile.

“No more unconventional than consummating it on a forest floor, husband.” she flirted, carefree finally after weeks of pent up longing. “And actually, it is said that in the time of the First Men, man and wife would lay near the Heart Tree in sight of the Gods to ensure a blessed union,” she whispered, “so maybe we’re only being traditional.”

“Your old Gods are perverts, Sansa.” He said seriously, looking into her eyes. He was quiet for a long second and Sansa almost worried that she’d gone too far and that he was repulsed by her shamelessness, until he threw back is head and laughed.

“Off with this dress, you lewd girl. Stockings and small clothes, as well.” He tugged up her skirts. “To think I used to escort you to the Sept.”

Her clothes were off in short order, no help from Sandor. She had to gently nudge him off her so that she could stand to remove her girdle belt, dress, and shift. All the while, he was pawing at her, trying to “help,” until she laughed and told him to stand back. “Just look right now, my love.”    


He gave a lascivious smile at her words and took a small step back. His hands stayed outstretched for a moment, as if he was on the verge of grabbing her waist and crushing her to him. Finally, he lowered them and did as he was bade.

And then there she was. Naked as her name day in front of the only man she’d ever love. It was the most bizarre sensation, to be so totally exposed and vulnerable and yet, Sansa wasn’t afraid.  For a moment, she felt blank and out of herself, as if she was watching two mummers in a play. Was this really happening or was it some marvelous day dream?

His voice brought her back. “Gods.” he said reverently. He looked a bit out of himself as well, mouth slightly agape and eyes never focusing on one part of her form for long. Steam puffed from his lips with each heavy breath. The weight of his gaze was more intoxicating than any wine or cider. Sansa couldn’t help but blush-  prettily, she hoped.

“What are you waiting for?” She turned and splashed into the spring, leaving him staring. The water was deep enough even at the edges to cover the swell of her breasts and the fact that he could no longer see all of her jarred him into action.

“Not waiting.” he said, dazed, as he began tugging off his own clothes.

_ Take your time _ , Sansa thought, enjoying the sight of him pulling his tunic overhead and admiring the way his breeches were slung low on his waist.   _ No, hurry! _ She changed her mind the more she saw.

Sandor entered the hot springs and pulled her close, one hand kneading into the small of her back. The other tilted her jaw up, demanding that she look him in the eye. “Are you certain this is what you want, Little Bird? The rest of your life tied to me? We can take it all back, up until now,” he rasped.    


“I’m certain. I want nothing more than to spend the rest of my life with you, however long the Gods grant me.”

_ Wedded life is bliss _ , she thought, as he leaned forward to kiss her once more. 

 

********************************************************************

 

Afterwards, Sansa was half-sitting, half-floating on Sandor’s lap, her head propped up by his chest, her shoulders just above the water. They were seated on a smooth, rock ledge which jut out from the side of the spring, forming a natural bench. His fingers wound in her hair, combing out little tangles where he found them. His masculine scent was mixed with the earthy aroma of the steam and Sansa felt at peace. She nuzzled into his chest, letting the little wet hairs there tickle her cheek.

He looked down at her, his hands still busy in her hair. “Your hair is like a flock of goats, moving down the slopes…”

“Hmm?”

“Your teeth are like a flock of shorn ewes that have come up from the washing.”

“Pardon?” She knew she was feeling dreamy, but she hadn’t thought she was going mad.

“Your two breasts are like two fawns, twins of a gazelle, that feed among the something or other…”  He threw back his head and laughed and moved his hands up to cup her teats.

“What are you on about?” She demanded, placing her own small hands on his massive wrists.

“Don’t tell me you don’t know this part!” he chuckled. “Oh, I suppose your Septa didn’t have you read the whole thing then? What a lacking religious education you Northerners receive.”

“Oh!” Sansa exclaimed, vague memories of her childhood lessons came rushing back.  _ Weren’t Robb, Theon, and Jon punished once for thumbing through the indecent parts?  _ “Is that from the  _ The Seven Pointed Star _ ?”

“It is.” He gave her breasts another squeeze. “My favorite verse. I thought we’d best have some holy words thrown in to this wedding of ours.”

Sansa did her best to look unfazed, though internally she was nonplussed.  _ He has a favorite verse? I’ve never seen him pray...or read. My husband’s so full of surprises.... _

“I hadn’t imagined you’d’ve wanted to be wed like this, but I’m glad you did,” he interrupted her train of thought.  _ I suppose I surprise him, as well. _

“Mm, I’ve rather had my fill of weddings.” she replied absently, “And besides, who will notice a little thing like you and I marrying when Jon’s gone and won himself the most sought after bride in all Westeros and Essos combined.”

He snickered. “That’s true. I suppose I’m settling for the second-most sought after, eh?” A cheeky hand crept down to squeeze her buttocks, making her squeal. “Can’t say I mind. Even so, I thought you’d want to get married in a Sept, the Southron way.”    


“When I was a girl, I wanted nothing more. But I’ve changed and my wants are different now. This feels so right to me.” 

“Still - no candles, no incense, no guests, no feast, no Septon…” 

“Sandor,” she grinned, “Did  _ you _ want to be married in a Sept?”   _ What did those silent brothers do to him? _

He snorted. “Of course not. Only a fool -” He froze. His eyes narrowed and his head cocked to the side, listening intently. 

“Sandor, wha-” He brought his finger harshly to her lips. 

“Somone’s coming,” he mouthed. 

His warrior's instincts didn’t lie. Soon enough she heard for herself. The scuttle of leaves underfoot, the timber of two voices, lilting and teasing - most likely drunk - coming closer, closer, closer….. _ “Why couldn’t we have been the only lovers to think of this?”  _ she thought  somewhat bitterly. It was too late to hide. Too late to rush out and dress themselves. Too late for anything other than acceptance.  _ I’ll just have to explain that this particular area is occupied…. _ Sansa hadn’t planned on announcing her marriage nude from Sandor’s lap, but there it was. She peered at Sandor, trying to discern what he was thinking. 

His face went through a range of emotions: fear, anger, sheepishness, horror, back to fear again. Catching Sansa’s calm expression, he swallowed and collected himself, grim determination writ across his face. “As long as it’s not your brother, we’ll be alright,” he rasped, his hands moving across her sex and bosom, although the water was doing more to protect her modesty.

And then, suddenly, a familiar whine, too close for comfort. “Eeeewwwwwwwwwww! Sansaaaaaa! Urggghl!”

Arya Stark, nearly doubled over from laughing, stood just a stone’s throw away from the spring, a mortified Gendry right behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please let me know if you notice something I should change. 
> 
> I quoted the Song of Solomon in here just because I read it the other day and found it hilarious. I'm sure Sansa's hair really is like a flock of goats, if you're into that kind of thing. 
> 
> I am super-grateful that you've read this much and I hope you're enjoying this. It has been fun writing it, although I am slow and still learning a lot.


	7. Sandor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They're caught!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wrapping this story up in 1 more chapter, I hope! Thank you for reading!

 

Chapter Seven

 

Sandor was bleary eyed and heavy limbed. Satisfied and calm, but exhausted. He knew he needed to give it up, but still, he couldn’t stop looking at her. His wife’s sleeping form, tucked warmly beside him, was just so beautiful. _She’ll still be yours in the morning, you cuntstruck dog_ he told himself. _Sleep. Prepare yourself for tomorrow._

Tomorrow. Tomorrow promised to be a day like no other day Sandor had ever lived - an unquestionably good one. He’d wake beside his wife - kind and witty, impossibly beautiful and curiously lustful. She’d probably want another tumble in the morning; she’d practically said as much before drifting off. _I need to rest up for her sake,_ he thought with a wicked grin.

The unpleasant act of telling her brother what they’d done was, blessedly, out of the way. Sansa and the little wolf-girl had seen to that.  To be honest with himself, Sandor was grateful the task had just taken care of itself without any planning or intervention on his part. He had no idea how to handle himself with the King in the North. He had no idea how to beg forgiveness when he wasn’t at all sorry for what they’d done.  He _should_ feel contrite.  Honor demanded that he ask the King for her hand, but he’d gone and taken it and then sealed the deal, rutting in the family’s Godswood.  How to explain that to an overprotective brother? Could he have just grabbed Sansa from her brother’s side, hauled her over his shoulder like a Wildling and been done with it? Or better yet - taken her over the table in the Hall for all to see and shout “Mine!”the Dothraki way?

No, those were all good ways to end up gelded. Better that it happened the way it did.  He let his mind replay the night’s events…

 

************************************************************************

 

“Someone’s coming,” he mouthed to Sansa, placing a rough finger over her lips, trying hard not to splash the water and alert the intruders of their whereabouts. _Fuck! How could we have been so careless?_  In the warmth of the hot spring, he’d been so caught up in their own little heaven, he had no idea how much time had passed. Were these the footsteps of guards out here looking for the Lady of the castle? And would they be given the chance to explain themselves?

Her brother was going to cut his balls off for sure. It didn’t look good - she was flushed and her hair was in damp tangles. A cursory glance down her neck showed little love bites forming where he’d been a bit too ardent.  Also, she was sitting naked in his lap and making no move to get off. _Oh gods, I can’t let them see her naked,_ he thought, moving his  hands over the bits he considered for-his-eyes-only. “As long as it’s not your brother, we’ll be alright.” He tried to sound more confident than he felt.

And then, a voice he knew all too well. “Eeeewwwwwwwwwww! Sansaaaaaa! Urggghl!”

_The little wolf-bitch! I may live to fuck my wife another day after all._  It was only Arya. And Gendry. _Now what business would he have alone in a Godswood with Arya?_

“Hello, Arya. Hello, Gendry.” Sansa said coolly, but with fire glinting just contained beneath the calm.

Arya, laughing her head off, was too out of breath to reply. Gendry, who’d promptly turned his back to the spring, offered a meek, “Good evening, my lady. Good evening, Ser.”

Sandor grunted in response. He hated being called _Ser_ but he liked the fact that the too-frequently-shirtless blacksmith was deferential. _Since when has Arya liked the company of total whingers?_

“Arya, when you collect yourself, will you please turn around so that my husband and I can leave the water?” Sansa said primly.

“Husband!?! Hahahahahaha,” another round of laughter from Arya. And then, seconds later, a look of realization on her face, her little nose wrinkling, “Husband! Ewwwwww! So that means you and he ---?”

“That’s enough out of you!” he barked, sounding more harsh than he felt. Really, he was grateful that it was Arya, of all people, who’d interrupted them. She was murderous, but hopefully, not towards him.

“Blech! You’re both disgusting!” Arya said definitively and turned her back towards the spring.

Sansa was wroth, and from the look on her face, Sandor was worried she’d forgo putting on clothes and move straight to wring Arya’s little neck.  “And what were _you two_ planning on doing out here, hmph?” he heard Sansa mutter under her breath. No response was given, but both Arya and Gendry seemed to be looking at their feet.

It was almost impossible to dry off completely before dressing, and his clothes felt damp and uncomfortable against his skin. The cold night air, after the hot spring, was well-nigh unbearable. Sansa looked to be in slightly better shape. She was shivering, but determined. Little icicles formed at the tips of her hair while her frozen little fingers fixed the mess of crooked laces running through her dress.

“You may turn around now,” Sansa said,  her nose up in the air, once they were both fully clothed again.

Arya met Sandor’s eyes as she spun on her heel, a quizzical, but friendly glance. She narrowed her eyes a bit, but in a split second, she half-grinned at him  and looked to her sister. Their eyes met, and for a moment, Sandor was tense with the possibility that it might really come to blows between the two girls - women - whatever they were. Sansa had a hard look in her eye, as if she was daring Arya to say something.

“Let me help you pin your hair,” Arya said.

“Thank you,” Sansa said, her voice a bit wobbly now. _Oh gods, she’s not….crying again, is she? I thought she was mad? Five minutes ago she was happy and laughing._

“Don’t be upset, Sansa!” Arya said, as she gingerly shoved at some of her sister’s stray locks with a pin. “We’re sorry we interrupted and we promise we won’t say anything. Right, Gendry?” Gendry nodded furiously, eyes still at his shoes. “You look normal, I swear it. No one will ever guess. I mean - your hairs a bit…” she shrugged. “But not that bad.  And congratulations, I suppose.”

“It’s not that, it’s - oh - just, thank you!” Sansa said, grabbing her sister into the only display of physical affection he’d ever seen between the two. _Oh, so that was happy crying? Hmm...hard to tell the difference..._

“Blech!” Arya grunted when Sansa finally let her go. “Let’s get back, shall we?”

 

********************************************

 

The walk back through the Godswood had been far less awkward than he’d have expected. Soon, Sansa was chatting happily, asking Gendry if he’d tried the figgy pudding and wondering which dessert had been the night’s most popular. Sandor thought back to a time when her endless chirping had annoyed and even angered him. It felt like so long ago.

“I think the ale has been night’s most popular, my lady,” Gendry answered.

“You mean everyone’s full-up drunk.” Sandor laughed.

“Exactly.” Arya said. “Tormund’s started telling everyone who’ll  listen about the time he drank a whole cask by himself to best a bear in a drinking contest.”

“And now everyone is  trying to match his record.” Gendry finished.

“I was close!” Arya exclaimed. “And anyway, I definitely beat him if you consider proportions!”

Sandor goggled at her. Disbelieving, a flurry of questions ran through his brain. _She did what? She drank how much? And now she’s running around with the Whinger? DOING WHAT?_

He turned toward Gendry and glowered. It wouldn’t do to confront the bugger in front of Sansa and the little-wolf. That would have to wait for when he found him alone….yes - that would scare the boldness out of him. He let his mind dwell for a few seconds on the image he conjured of a terrified Gendry held aloft by his throat.

“You’re going to be an insufferable relation,” Arya said, as if she could read minds.

“I feel the same,” he growled back. _But you’ll need me,_ he thought. _Your brother’s next to useless at protecting the two of you. The fact that the likes of me spent the last hour inside your sister is proof._

The group was edging up on the party now, close enough to hear the the sweet jingle of the lute strings and the drums tapping out a beat. From the looks of it, the crowd had thinned somewhat, but the guests that remained were as raucous as when he’d left. The foursome approached the courtyard through the gate. The revelers didn’t spare them a second look, but a jolly looking wench shoved a cup of something into Sansa’s hands and danced off.

“Oh, it’s honey mead!” Sansa inhaled deeply and took a sip. “I didn’t know we had it! Here, you must try!” she said, taking Sandor by the hand and shoving the cup up towards his lips, an intimate gesture if there ever was one. He took a sip and let the thick sweet taste on his tongue.

“I’ve had it imported from Lys,” he heard the regal voice of the Dragon Queen.

He wasn’t sure about his own face, but Sansa was plainly blushing as she gingerly took a step back from him. “It’s delightful, Your Grace,” Sansa said. “Thank you very much for the gift of it.”

Queen Daenerys’s violet eyes flicked from one face to another and settled firmly on Sansa. “I’m happy to share it.” she said, not sounding at all happy. _The only person I want to speak with less than the King._

“Come, my lady,” Daenerys continued. “I wish to walk a bit. Would I have the pleasure of your company?” It wasn’t a request.

“The pleasure is mine, Your Grace,” and his wife was whisked off into the night. Without her, Sandor had no idea what to do with himself but brood. _Shit._

“Don’t blame us,” Arya half-whispered. “ We didn’t tell. We’ve been right here the whole time.”

“She’s a free person,” he growled back. “And no one could say I forced her. Bugger this, we’ll go to the Free Cities if we have to.”

Arya rolled her eyes. “Don’t be so dramatic,” she said, as if she were chiding a small child instead of a grown man. “You won’t have to go to the Free Cities. Jon _wants_ us to be happy. And the Queen does too, probably. And whatever you do, don’t go after her right now. You’ll only make it worse.”

It was too soon into their reign for Sandor to reply, _Fuck the King. Fuck the Queen_ but he wanted to. “Let’s find a drink,” he said instead. _I’m in no mood to face what’s next sober._  


********************************************************

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. This is un-beted, so if you notice any terrible error, just let me know and I will fix. I really appreciate your feedback and comments. Thank you so much for taking the time to read!


End file.
